Before Shabbat

One day, in my early adolescent years in the mid-1960s, a thought burst forth from some deep corner of my soul that truly rearranged my sense of the Universe. I was sitting outside at the bus depot in Middletown, waiting for a 10 am NYC-bound Greyhound. I don’t know what it’s like now, but in those days, the station was a small house repurposed into a rather decrepit bus stop. The plain, slightly seedy look of it all didn’t bother me. It was a beautiful day, with wispy white clouds moving gently across the sky, and I was about to visit an old friend.

Another bus bound for Providence was idling as passengers boarded. I looked at the scene, the line of people slowly wending their way into the bus, handing over suitcases and bags. That’s when it struck me. These people I was watching —high school-age kids like me, college students, adults, men and women, and a few young toddlers —were all sharing this moment in time together. And I would never see them again. Ever. This was it.

At first, this thought was disconcerting. It exemplified the true randomness of existence and the sheer vastness of the Universe. Everyone in line had a story, but I would never hear them. We were destined to be total strangers. And more: even if you have a friend circle of 100 people, and you know some of their relatives and relations, the number of people you know is infinitesimally small once you realize that there are 8 billion humans on earth. We live in a world surrounded by the unknown.

These numbers and the tiny circles we inhabit make the people we do know and love even more important. To be known and to be loved are the foundations of humanity. We recognize that loneliness and disconnection can be traumatic and profoundly distressing. We may not know every member of our temple community, but when we gather, we share certain familiar stories that draw us closer.

I know that social media is rightly criticized for creating algorithms that draw people of similar opinions together, excluding a proliferation of other thoughts and possibilities. Pockets of conspiracy, lies about everything from the earth is flat to the moon landing was faked to vaccinations are bad and cause disease, to Jews are seeking to supplant the power of white people, all these and more are all toxic. The astonishing array of ideas in the world can keep us humble and always inquisitive.

But these algorithmic siphons don’t just channel the grotesque our way. Sometimes they bring enlightenment and insight. A few days ago, Jack DeJohnette died at age 83. Perhaps you don’t recognize the name. However, if you listened to jazz, DeJohnette was a legend —a truly iconic master drummer. He did things I found transcendent: beautiful, caustic, gentle, explosive, riveting: all in one tune.

Jack DeJohnette was not only a master technician but also deeply spiritual, a true artist who understood Music as a path to transcendence. In an interview, he once said, “”Music is a spiritual thing. It’s about touching people’s souls, helping them grow, and connecting them to something greater than themselves. He lived that philosophy in every performance, every recording, every moment behind the kit.

I went to hear him play years ago with the Keith Jarrett Trio at Jordan Hall in Boston. I mentioned this to a jazz drummer friend of mine, who expressed some envy over this upcoming gig. He said, “Jack is a supreme musician. If you want to know who keeps it all on track, listen to what he does with his cymbals.” I was skeptical but paid close attention to DeJohnette’s performance. And my friend was right. DeJohnette led the way with dexterity, grace, and muscle. It wasn’t just good Music – it was sacred.

My Instagram, Facebook, and TikTok feeds were filled with clips from performances by DeJohnette and comments from hundreds of jazz fans and musicians, all mourning the death of a truly great man. I found myself within a group of strangers – all sharing a dual sense of loss and appreciation. And it felt so good. Like singing together. Like praying together. 

rehhayim

A month has passed since my sister Marta’s funeral, yet the entire event still feels surreal. Part of me remains frozen in that first raw moment of loss. One image refuses to fade: looking down at her coffin at the bottom of the grave as I tossed in a handful of earth. I’d performed this same ritual as a rabbi so many times at so many services.  I did it at my mother’s funeral, and my brother’s too, but this time carried a sharper poignancy. Perhaps it was my heightened sense of vulnerability, my intimate knowledge of the disease that took her. Or perhaps it was simply the weight of having aged—of standing closer to the end than to the beginning.

There’s no celebration in this proximity to death, no prize or ticker tape parade. I know there are Jews who view this life as a prosdor, an antechamber to the olam ha-ba, the world to come—where God acknowledges our suffering and rewards our souls with eternal life, where we shed our pain and receive blessings and grace.

I wish I could embrace this traditional vision of what follows death. Marta endured more than her share of pain and suffering. If anyone deserved the gift of wholeness and an afterlife of ease, not to mention a parade and a tiara, it was my sister. But I don’t believe that’s her destiny—or mine.

When we go, we’re gone. Period.

Yet fragments do remain. The sound of Marta’s voice chanting Kol Nidre. Our duet version of Magen Avot. Her raucous laughter. These still play in my mind with perfect clarity. We delighted in each other’s company, and these recollections have no expiration date. They may never disappear.

But other things will inevitably fade. It’s the nature of spacetime itself—entropy flowing into chaos. The universe expands faster than light, pulling everything apart. Eventually, complete darkness will reign, with no sources of light, temperatures near absolute zero, particles separated by vast and ever-growing distances. No organized structures or processes will be possible. Time itself will become meaningless because nothing will change. Humanity will likely be long extinct by then, but the point remains: everything that’s put together eventually falls apart.

In the meantime—before oblivion—I hold both the sadness of loss and the warmth of love. Like all of us, I balance the blessings and curses accumulated over a lifetime. The juggling act can be exhausting, heartbreaking. Just yesterday, I spoke with a young woman about her upcoming wedding. When I asked about her grandfather, who died ten years ago, she didn’t just cry or tear up—she wept, genuinely wept.

It struck me then: humans possess this extraordinary capacity to love and grieve simultaneously. This is why parents cry at their children’s B’nai Mitzvah and weddings—life and death collide in a place so deep it defies identification. How many times has someone said, “I don’t know why I’m crying”? But I know: it’s Eros and Thanatos wrestling for our attention.

A part of my memory book is gone forever. Marta knew me like no one else could—we swam in the same womb, shared a lifetime of understanding. Now my sister Joan and I continue forward, carrying Marta’s laughter in our hearts, until our own end of time.

This morning is stunning. Autumn has arrived in full—the leaves brilliant with color, the air sharp and clean, promising the first frost any day now. I’ve seen seventy falls, and somehow each one still catches me off guard. You’d think the cycle would feel predictable by now, but the seasons just keep surprising me. 

Maybe you’re like me—reveling in this shift, feeling energized by the cooler air and changing light. Or maybe the chill feels a little ominous to you, a reminder that winter’s coming whether we’re ready or not. Either way, here we are at this beautiful threshold, taking in whatever comes. 

Against this gorgeous backdrop, I keep checking the news from Israel. Where nature moves with simple elegance, human affairs remain heartbreakingly complicated. But today there’s real hope: it looks like the hostages might finally come home, and the fighting might actually stop. After two years of this nightmare, we can almost see the end. 

I’m cautiously hopeful. President Trump’s unorthodox approach seems to have broken through where others couldn’t. Like Nixon going to China, sometimes it takes an unexpected person to make the impossible happen. I’m pretty sure no other US president in living memory could’ve done it. I know this because they’ve all tried – and failed. 

But what must it be like for those hostages—returning from two years of darkness back into light? From torture and starvation to safety and love? I can’t begin to imagine that journey. 

I’ve caught myself wondering if I would have survived. At my age, with my health issues, probably not. I doubt I would have made it through even those first brutal hours. It’s a sobering thought. 

What kept them going in that darkness? Did they pray, sing songs they remembered, hold onto poems in their minds? What small grace notes allowed them to stay human when everything was designed to break them? I hope they’ll share their stories when they’re ready. 

There’s so much to learn from this terrible chapter—about power and technology, about revenge and what it costs us. The reckoning will take years. 

The prophet Micah imagined a time when “nation shall not lift up sword against nation, neither shall they learn war any more.” It’s an almost unbearably beautiful vision—that we might finally see killing innocents for what it is, no matter the justification. Will we get there? Honestly, I don’t know. But I keep hoping we’ll evolve past our hunger for power and possession, choosing instead the extraordinary beauty that’s right here, available every single day. 

For now, fall is here—and that’s enough. 

rehhayim